


New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

by lookingforatardis



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, New York, Phone Calls, Pining, Rain, first person POV, timmy is v sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: It's been weeks since Armie and Timmy have spoken. One night, as he watches the rain fall outside, Timmy breaks down thinking of him.





	New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> I just spent a week in NYC and one of the days, it POURED rain. I was sitting in my Chelsea hotel room, watching the rain splash on the pavement and cloud the sky, and I was wondering if Timmy thought about Crema when it rained in New York, how different that rain must be to this. So naturally, I started writing, and it morphed into this. Title from the LCD Soundsystem song I listened to on repeat while writing.

It's dreary today, muddled thoughts caught in the splash of puddles when taxis too eager turn right just as it turns red. The chill in the air reminds me that seasons are meaningless when raindrops catch on eyelashes and fingertips. It's warm in bed, a soothing oasis from the world outside.

He hasn't called in weeks.

I tell myself it doesn't matter; he's doing a film, it's fine really. He's busy, I've been there before and know it too well. You mean to call but you get home from shooting and you're exhausted. Hell, I get it. Totally fine.

It's been 23 days. Radio silence, but he liked a post of mine. Not sure what it means. It's been 23 days though, and that alone should be enough to tell me what I need to know.

I guess I always assumed that it would end this way but there was something in his eyes that made me believe this time I might be wrong. He could take the slightest insecurity and turn it on it’s head until it was burning bright in blue eyes like sunlight caught on the Hudson. Of course it had an expiration date though, one which collided with my own hesitation to fall completely. 

A siren cuts through the night and it might as well, might as well be rushing to me. I think back to Crema, the rain there so quiet and powerful. Back when the smell of droplets hitting pavement meant spending hours in his apartment, on his bed, in his arms laughing and wrestling. Harmless. He’d said it was harmless. 

I believed him. 

Someone’s shouting outside and I envy them for their ability to voice concern, whatever it may be, at whoever their target is. I wonder if he’d even answer if I called now, if he’d act like no time had passed, like I hadn’t spent 23— nearly 24— days taking myself apart stitch by stitch to find whichever faulty seam was the one that made him go quiet. Was I too honest? Had I shown too much in my hasty realization that all this time had passed and I’d loved him all along? Had he seen the look in my eyes and known? 

Did he really just forget?

Nothing ever is as it seems with him and I want to reach out but I’ve done it so many times that at this point it’s pathetic. What’s the alternative, though? Waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting for something that may never happen. Could I do that?  _ Continue _ to do that? 

There’s a solitary peace that falls over the city this late, as if millions of people come together to fall apart in the comfort of their own homes, lives, selves. How many others are suffering, too? Would they reach out? I can’t think of these things, I’ll go mad. The complex across from me is scattered in light, windows here and there illuminated with people better served by sleep, I’m sure. I remember hearing once that nothing good happens after midnight, some insipid remark meant to pull away the desire of teenagers to “do bad things” after dark. It rings true, the bottle of Jack on my bedside table calling to me in the darkness of my room lit only by the skylight and no-new-messages. 

The rain settles; I wish my heart would. 

He must know though, how could he not when I looked at him so many times lost in thought? He had to be out there somewhere thinking of me at least on occasion. He had to. I refuse to accept an alternative, which of course would mean I’d imagined it all along. What good does that do? To consider the implications that I’d been so far gone even in the beginning that I’d created his lingering glances and touches as some sort of alternate reality where he loved me instead of her. He always says I’m mature, but my age shows when I think of him. Perhaps that’s what made him stop, my age. He hadn’t spoken to me since my party, perhaps the realization of the seconds between our births was too much and he ran, afraid, unsure. 

Or maybe it was the ring he refused to take off. 

When I was a child, it had rained when my mother took us to the zoo, Pauline holding her coat around me as we ran back towards the subway station, mom laughing and us following. It used to hold magic, the rainbows thrown in puddles and skylines bright and hopeful in the aftermath like a dream. The city sighs when it stops, relief washing over the pedestrians, even a smile on occasion, if you’re lucky. He used to clear the skies, stand there with his smile and make the rain go away and rainbows appear like magic, like running through greenery until concrete hits. He didn’t even know it was raining, didn’t seem to care enough to wander over and make it stop. He could, if he wanted to. He would call and it would all stop, all the frustration, the pain. For a little while at least, it would stop. 

There isn’t anything I can do about it, I’ve determined. I’m certain I’ve been clear, that by now he should know I want to talk to him always. He told me once I never annoy him, well this is proof enough that something did, somewhere along the way. If he’d tell me what, I could stop, I don’t know. I’d do something,  _ anything _ , because this is fucking hell. 

I reach for my phone, pretend I’m surprised when there’s still nothing. I wonder if he’ll engage with me on social media, if the  _ like _ the other day was coincidence or not. Had she looked at it and liked it on his phone? Was it ever really him? 

His pictures are dull compared to him and it makes it worse, so much worse, to see his plastered masks and media smiles. Strip them down, I’d tell him. Strip it away. He’d smirk and make a joke that made me blush too hard and we’d laugh it off. But that was in Crema, when rain was good and he was good and we were  _ good. _

God, I fucking miss him. 

If he would just  _ call _ , text something  _ anything _ . I don’t think he knows he’s doing this to me, if he knew he probably wouldn’t do it. He’s not cruel, he normally isn’t anyway. I see him out in posts and know he’s doing things, acting, spending time with his family. He’s living, I’m over here fucking crying in front of a window because he won’t call. Pathetic. 

Luca would tell me to call him, I should just do it first. Swallow my pride, stop the pain myself for once in my goddamn life. I used to think feeling this much was a blessing; it helped with the acting. Maybe it was anything but. It feels like a fucking curse. 

I down a hefty gulp of whiskey and lean against the window, the cool chilling me so I can feel something. Anything other than pain, I’ll take numb any day. Another sip, another slip, my finger on his contact. One press and I’d hear the tone that signaled he was ignoring me once again. Because he had to be, at this point he must be ignoring me. 23 fucking days, he  _ had _ to be. 

I press call, why the hell not at this point? There’s a moped outside with some guy shouting at a barkeep, his coat soaked through. Idiot. It’s raining, what did he expect? What do I? 

It rings and rings and rings and I drop the phone in my lap, pressing speaker with another drink of the whiskey he gave me the last time we saw each other. I get his voicemail, I’m not surprised. He must have half a dozen, maybe more, from me. Just sitting there. Waiting. 

“Hey, it’s me.” I’m not sure why I bother, what I could say that would make him care again. It’s probably pointless. He probably wouldn’t even listen to it. I end the call, nauseous with my own weakness for calling in the first place. The rain pounds softly against the window and it’s soothing in a way, like it’s trying to wash me of my sins and him, separated from the relief only by glass. A mask. Fitting. 

There’s a neighbor in this building, I don’t know where, that has a small dog. It’s annoying, the shrilly kind. But sometimes it would bark when we talked on the phone and he’d laugh, Archie barking back if he was around somewhere. I haven’t heard the yippy thing in awhile either, perhaps the universe is working against me to tell me to let go of him once and for all. Maybe even the universe runs out of luck. 

Maybe I used it all up and he’s grown bored in my foolish use of time. I should have told him when I had the chance. Not that he didn’t already know how my heart clenched at the sight of him, how my body responded to even just his voice. He knew. He pretended he didn’t, but he knew. 

And still, silence. It has to mean something, maybe I’d fucked up in some royal way that he can’t even bring himself to—

_ Armie. _ His face lights up the screen, a call that ends faster than I can press answer. He’s seen my call then, perhaps hit call on accident as a response. He’s awake, alert, looking at my contact. I can feel it. Another drink,  _ answer you bastard _ I type out, but before I can hit send, he’s already sent a text of his own. 

_ AH: Sorry. Busy. Talk later? _

Later. As if he doesn’t know what that word means to me now. It’s the first thing he’s said to me in weeks and it makes my vision blur, the bases of my palms pressing hard into my eyes until I see stars instead of letters. Luca would tell me to say it, to just tell him what I need to say. Hell, so would Pauline at this point. I should just tell him, I know it. I should say  _ something _ at least. 

_ TC: Later is now. It’s been weeks.  _

I turn to look out the window at the street. Moped is gone now, but the barkeep is hanging around the safety of the awning with either a cigarette or joint between his lips. Maybe if I was high this wouldn’t hurt so much. 

_ AH: I know. I’m sorry.  _

Sorry? I can’t believe what I’m reading, if this is really his only response. I stare at it and try not to focus on the pressure inside my chest, the way my blood seems to clot in my veins until I can’t move or breathe or even exist. He’s  _ sorry? _ For three weeks of ignoring me? I hate the tears that form almost as much as I hate myself for crying simply for hearing from him again. 

_ TC: you’re a dick.  _

I send it because it’s true and I hate him and myself and this whole situation. The city is the only thing that makes sense tonight, the steady rhythm of life disrupted only slightly by the rain. I can predict the tire screech of the neon green taxi somewhat out of place down here. I can smell the petrichor, hear the grandmotherly woman on her phone under the cheetah print umbrella, feel the water seep into shoes in the puddles on the way to the subway stop. It’s real and tangible, the city. He is not. His silence hangs over me stronger than the clouds caught between high rises. 

_ TC: dont bother calling if you cant tell me why you ignored me.  _

My chest hurts and so does my head, but it usually does when it rains like this. In Crema, Armie used to run his hands through my hair and rub the nape of my neck when the headaches got spurred on, the two of us tucked away in one of our apartments on couches or beds with documentaries on repeat. I don’t even know where to go for his touch anymore. If I’d even be granted it. 

And maybe I don’t even want it anymore, maybe I’ve outgrown him, too. Maybe I still wake up in the middle of the night with his name on my lips, his skin on mine, tears in my eyes. Maybe he doesn’t care at all. 

_ AH: would you believe me if i said it was for the best?  _

_ TC: fuck you.  _

Another drink, he can’t possibly understand the depth of my despair at reading his message. He wouldn’t send it otherwise, would he? Or does he want that, for me to hurt? 

_ AH: I guess I deserve that  _

He doesn’t deny any of the hurt he’s caused me, doesn't try to defend himself in the slightest. He’s given up on something and I fear it might be me. 

_ TC: I miss you.  _

I hesitate before sending it but the lights of the nearest street lamp flicker and the puddles are reflecting their unreliability back at me and I need something to hold onto that isn’t shadow. 

_ AH: I miss you too _

It isn’t enough and I feel empty immediately, his words hollowing me out to make room for more pain at his hand. He must not be with her right now, she must not be in town. He wouldn’t text me like this if she were there, I resolve. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t heard from him, she was always too close. Maybe he felt he had something to hide. Then again, maybe she’s sitting next to him and they’re having a casual conversation in bed while he texts me with half a mind. 

_ TC: prove it  _

He calls me and everything in my being seizes upon seeing his face light up the screen. I answer tentatively, too aware of the hold he has over me, of his power to destroy my heart so easily. 

“I’m sorry. I have no excuses to give you, I’m just sorry. I didn’t answer that one time and then it was a few days and I was embarrassed, and then it was a week and then two and it felt like too much time had passed.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” I might throw up, I feel so sick. “What about the texts I sent you? Did you just not think to reply?” 

“I told you, I’m sorry—”

“I fucking missed you,” I say, my voice low and broken. “I missed you, so fucking much.” I hate the tears that spill over, his voice in my ear strong and everything I’d been wishing for. I just wanted to hear him, I’d said so many times over the past three weeks. If I could just hear him. And now it’s not enough. 

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” he whispers, just as intensely. “I didn’t know what to do, okay?” 

“What does that even mean? It’s been three weeks—”

“I  _ know _ how long it’s been, Tim. I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing! Give me something!” I snap, my hand fisting at my side. I don’t want his empty apologies, I want action, something to hold onto for the next time he decides his life is already full without me. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits. It’s sad and desolate and I hate him. 

“Try the truth.” I’m not sure I want to know, I’m not sure he even knows what his truth is when it comes to me. I’m not sure either of us know. 

“I missed you, too. More than I should,” he says. It’s slow, the silken comfort that floods me. “I don’t know, Timmy,” he whispers. I can hear a door shut and I cling to the phone, trying to press raindrops out of what I hear to hold onto his voice a little closer. “It killed me to walk away last time and it scared me.” 

“To walk away?” 

“No,” he says, and for a moment I feel dizzy with how high I’ve already managed to get my hopes up again. 

“Armie—”

“How badly I wanted to go back,  _ that _ scared me.” 

“Oh.” It’s more than I’ve had in weeks, this soft confession. Could it really mean what I need it to, though? 

“I didn’t want to feed that fire,” he tells me, his voice worn and tired. 

“Fire…?” 

“Don’t play dumb, you’re too smart for that,” he says. 

“I need you say it,” I whisper, barely loud enough for my own ears, my heart thumping in my chest faster than it should. The tips of my fingers are tingling and I’m not sure why but I can’t think about it, can’t think about anything except the seconds passing between us like livewires through these wavelengths. 

“I can’t.”

“Armie—”

“I  _ can’t _ . Don’t make me say it.” 

I hate him all over again for his reticence. He doesn’t need to hold back when I’m so desperate for the slightest answer. “Please, Armie.” He sighs and I know I have him, if I can only pull him a little further. “Please just say it, I need to hear it, just once.” 

“I’m married,” he says softly, as if I didn’t know, as if I wasn’t painfully aware of the ring he wore, of his tattoo. 

“I don’t care.” It’s not terribly untrue, I fell despite his commitment. I’d prefer if he wasn’t of course, but I can’t help that I feel this way now. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“Please,” I ask, tired. I look back at the whiskey longingly, wondering if another sip would hurt when I’m already drowning in emotion and rain and him. 

“I want you, are you happy?” he says finally, his voice quiet and resigned. 

“No,” I tell him honestly. I realize perhaps too late that hearing him say it doesn’t help at all, doesn’t fix anything. I can feel it settle deep into my bones and I know that tonight I’ll stare at the walls, his voice echoing, nothing I can do but listen and try not to cry for the life I can’t have. 

“It’s easier if we don’t talk. I can pretend I don’t want this so much,” he says, as if the floodgates have opened. My chest splits in two and I can’t stop the tears. I wish I was outside, then at least I’d have an excuse for the moisture catching on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve to be ignored without an explanation.” 

“I hate you,” I cry, my voice breaking. I don’t of course, but I can’t say what I really feel. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, defeated. “I wish it was different.” 

“I hate you,” I repeat, the words falling out of me without thought. “You  _ bastard _ . You made me love you.” And there it is, the words I’d kept so close to my chest for so many months. 

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” he cries, and I know he cries because his voice always takes a different tone with the heavy emotion. I wish I didn’t know how to tell his mood by the subtleties of his voice. “I love you, too. I know it doesn’t change anything—” 

I hang up, terrified to keep listening. I turn the phone off, leave it on the windowsill, stumble over to my bed. The blankets are warm and comforting in ways his words should have been. The rain keeps on for hours, I doze off around 3am. His voice is there, ever present, his  _ I love you _ drowned out only by  _ I’m sorry.  _ And while a part of me is glad I know, I also wish I’d suffered in silence, let myself believe he was happy. That his reasons for ignoring me were because of his own life going well, not because he couldn’t stand the thought of heartache from talking to me without having me. 

I wish I didn’t understand, wish I couldn’t relate. I wish I could actually hate him. 

The rain persists, as does my heart. Perhaps one day I’d learn to cope with both without the hangover. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I have to do something to keep/regain my title as angst queen of this fandom somehow lol 
> 
> Find me on tumblr! I write stuff there too :)


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